Bonds, Bombs, and Other Explosives
by VanillaGhost
Summary: In a world of Guides and Sentinels, sub-genders and bondmates, Harry must once again fight to keep himself and the ones he loves alive when the associate of an old enemy comes back with vengeance on her mind. (Sequel to 'Green Eyes, Guns, and Dangerous Things'; a Sentinel/Guide, A/B/O, and assassin AU.)
1. Bruises

**A/N:** Here it is, a half-baked cupcake. (I'll probably regret not leaving it in the oven longer but if I did, I think I might actually go insane.) But before I fire the starting gun, I'd like thank some people: To those who have been so patient and left such wonderfully encouraging messages even when it's been literal years since this series was last updated, I'm sincerely grateful. I'm terrible at replying most of the time but want it known that I read and deeply appreciate every single one of you. You've all been the fuel for this fic as I struggled in self-condemned silence to get this thing finally going. So without further ado, and in all its uncooked imperfect glory; the GEGDT sequel!

(As an additional aside, this is also crossposted to AO3 under the same username if some of you want to read it there instead.)

* * *

_These violent delights have violent ends_  
_And in their triumph die, like fire and gunpowder,_  
_Which, as they kiss, consume._

— William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

* * *

He's always been a Sentinel. Known it from the minute he had thoughts in his head. It happens like that for most, though. It's the same as when you know whether you have two arms and two legs. Whether a flame will burn if you get too close to it, or whether a shoe can crush an ant. It's hard not to know when the slightest slip in focus can turn a dripping tap into gunshots in your ears. Or a speck of lint into a forest of colour from twenty meters away. One step off the path and you're gone. A moment too long and you're swallowed up in the wilderness.

_Which is why you need a Guide_, they always say. _To pull you from the forest when it gets too overwhelming._ _And if you're really lucky, _they continue_, you might even find a bondmate_.

But Tom's always been able to find his path again. He doesn't need anyone or anything, much less a Guide, to keep him from straying. Bondmates are fairytales and Guides are crutches. All of it social propaganda and a weakness he can't afford. Another distraction to keep him from reaching his true potential. Like his mother had been. Or so he'd been led to believe, once upon a time.

* * *

_LONDON, ENGLAND. 12:53 PM._

**Muted aggression**_._

It's the only warning he gets to let him know their man is coming. Harry leans against the brick wall of the building and tries to ignore the itch under his skin. The familiar prickle that starts at the nape of his neck and trickles down his spine. Like half-remembered, cold fingertips, spreading goosebumps across skin damp with sweat.

As always, it was neither the time nor the place. But when was it to have your heat hit?

**Hostility**_…_ and a steady growing **excitement**.

A bloke with a five o'clock shadow and a mean look shuffles past Harry's periphery but he does not shrink. He's long since been able to fight that biological need to look smaller in a Sentinel's presence. Instead he looks at his phone, unseeing, and pretends not to be paying attention when Scabior turns the corner. Headed to where it's suspected he'll meet with a contact. Although physically unimpressive compared to others of his kind, Scabior is no less vicious than the worst. If being one of the few in Greyback's trusted circle wasn't telling enough, his criminal record was. A quick look will reveal some time spent in and out of prison for links to human trafficking. Nothing solid enough to stick though. The bastard was as slippery as they come.

After a minute goes by, Harry stuffs his hands in his tracksuit pockets before pushing off the grimy wall. Shoulders hunched, he keeps his gait casual. Nothing cocky. Just a beta Guide looking to bum something off another skeevy looking fellow.

When he turns the corner though, it's be greeted by a ringed fist propelling itself toward his face. He isn't ready to block or evade, just roll with the punch that has stars exploding across his vision. He stumbles back in dazed surprise as a pungent burst of anger surrounds him.

"Fuck you want, eh? Little feeler runt," Scabior spits as Harry makes a show of recovering from the hit. Scabior grabs himself through his trousers and swipes his tongue over a thin lip curled in a leer. "Wanted a good one from a real Sentinel cock, is it? 'Cause alls you 'ad to do was ask, love." He cackles to himself as Harry recognises the lapse in defence as an opportunity.

He moves fast, landing a hit straight to the throat. Not hard enough to permanently damage but enough to shut the man up. Scabior's eyes bulge in shocked pain, his hand coming up to clutch at a crushed windpipe struggling for breath.

"Thanks for the offer, mate. I'm good on Sentinel pricks for the moment," Harry says, and from the cocktail of **outrage** and wounded **pride** the Sentinel throws back at him, he readies himself for retaliation. Distantly, the hope that backup will arrive soon flashes through Harry's mind. He may be better at close combat than the defenseless omega he was three years ago but there's only so much training one can do when faced with an angry Sentinel.

As if to prove this, there's a hoarse shout and before he can dodge or counter it, a compact, muscled body slams into Harry. His back collides with a row of bins that topple to either side of them with half-hollow plastic sounds. Trash and other debris spew onto the pavement and Harry grunts with pain. He stiffens the next moment when the body atop his stills, chest expanding in a visible inhale.

_Shit_, he thinks. _Here we go_.

Because although Harry layered Beta pheromones over a heavy dose of scent blockers this morning, there's no hiding from a direct, nose-to-skin sniff. Especially not when you're an omega nearing your next heat.

Through the roar of blood in his ears, all Harry can hear is the man's uttering of a "—_ the fuck?_" before the body pulls away slightly — no doubt to deliver another blow. Harry uses the opening to get a knee up between them and shove. Hard.

Scabior falls to the side with a breathless sound and Harry hurries to scramble up and away. But Scabior is on his feet a second later, and Harry throws his shoulder into the next hit. When his fist collides with flesh and bone, it makes a satisfying _thwap_ sound. Then he aims for the head and words echo in his brain like a haunting tune.

"_Incapacitate a Sentinel's senses… and a good distraction."_

The jab hits its mark, resulting in a broken nose and a fountain of blood. Harry tries to shake off the feeling of ghostly lips brushing against his skin, his nose, his eyes.

_Concentrate, Potter._

And _that_ inner voice sounds enough like another Sentinel arse that Harry has to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. Why was he even thinking about either of _them_ now?

Scabior's howling as his hands try to stem the rush of blood from his nose. That's when Harry gets him in the solar plexis.

"_Hard to hit but very effective,"_ says the voice. _Harry's eyes scrunch and his lips part on a sigh when those searing lips suckle at the sensitive skin there._

Scabior doubles over, his breath punched out of him in a great _wooshing_ noise before he drops to his knees.

_Hands wander, stroking…_

There's a moment, a second too long where Harry should have been paying attention. Shouldn't have given into the pull of the pit in his head where nothing but ghosts linger now. It's only a moment that gives the other man his chance.

Harry's back hits the cold, hard ground a second before his head does and all he can see is —

_Wide hands stroke down his side, over his hips and thighs to finally hook under his knees. "Throw your opponent off balance,"_ comes the voice. Soft but loud, _hot_ like it was right there in his ear.

But another voice, one that's gruff and harsh, cuts through the fog like an ice cold shock. "You dirty fucking omega cunt," it spits before a fist winds its way back to deliver a brutal blow.

Harry's head snaps to the side from the force of it. Pain explodes, white hot, across his face as pinpricks light up his vision like static. A distant thought skitters through his mind; at least he wore contacts today. His glasses are too recognisable now, too impractical.

Then the next hit comes.

He thinks he'll lose his sight altogether at this rate. But through the murky haze, there's another voice. He's fairly certain it's not in his head this time though, as it seems to boom out from what feels like far, far away.

"ARMED POLICE! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! DON'T MOVE!"

The blows stop. Harry's eyes close and all he can think is a resounding _thank Christ_.

Or, more accurately, Ron Weasley.

If Harry's Guide abilities worked the way they should, he would've sensed his team's arrival. But his senses do more harm than good these days. It's been a while since he's even tried to use anything. Now he's no better than a Mute.

But that doesn't mean he can't still feel the fierce, protective **anger** and **urgency** coming from his friend. As familiar and welcome as an old blanket.

Harry squints open a blurred, crimson soaked eye to find Ron pointing his Order-issued sidearm at the Sentinel pinning Harry to the ground.

But Scabior isn't ready to give up teaching this _omega cunt_ a lesson. Harry can feel it through his patchwork-rough shields. Can sense it before any of the O.P.P.D. team realises it themselves. He reads it in the continuing sparks of **rage** and **panic** spitting off the man like a pan of frying oil. Harry's all too familiar with the cocktail of emotion. With the need to assert oneself as _better_ than some soft, weak, omega Guide.

So he uses the brief, split-second distraction of Ron's arrival to feel around the ground at his side. His fingers pluck up the nearest object — a pen from one of the toppled bins — and in one quick, wild movement, he imbeds it into the meat of the thigh straddling his right hip.

"_Pressure points. Can buy you enough time to hit a better area."_

A roar of pain cuts through the air as Scabior clutches his leg and spews more prejudiced filth from his mouth. But before he can lay another hand on Harry again, a blur of red hair crashes into him, effectively knocking him off Harry who hastens to scramble away.

When he manages to stand on shaky legs again, Harry watches as Ron tries to wrestle Scabior into submission. A few more O.P.P.D. members stand in a semi-circle around the two, weapons trained and ready. But like any animal caught, Scabior puts up a fight. A final, ferocious, feral attempt to escape the fate awaiting him. He isn't going down quick or quiet.

A pressure builds in Harry's chest. Panic, fear, dread. The same combination that's always there when the people he cares about are in danger. It's the same combination that's only increased after Basilisk tower.

The same one that forces him to take action.

Harry closes his eyes and pulls on that old, familiar ability. Reaches deep within himself to come face to face with that black pit in the back of his head. The swirling choppy waters where once there was only bright light and warmth. It's a blind grasp in the terrible unknown, a desperate scramble to find something, anything. Because right now Ron is struggling and crying out. He needs him. He needs Harry. So it's with frantic, mental fingers that Harry claws at whatever he finds, dragging it to the surface before pushing it all out — without thinking, without hesitation.

And it nails Scabior like a horse tranquiliser.

The Sentinel goes down like a puppet with its strings cut. Reduced to nothing but dead weight in Ron's arms.

Too much.

His friend's wide eyes jerk up to meet Harry's.

It was too much. _Oh, God._

But as soon as the pit of dread begins to open, a low muttering breaks through the stunned silence of the alley. It takes Harry far longer than he'd like to realise it's coming from Scabior.

Air fills Harry's lungs again, even though the whispered litany of "No, no, no, no…" from the man still chills him to the bone. Ron casts Harry another quick, nervous glance over his shoulder and hauls the man up. The rest of the team help and soon Scabior's limp frame is being dragged into an Order-issued black car.

As though mimicking their target, everything in Harry goes limp but he does not collapse. Instead he closes his eyes and sighs as shaky hands come up to run through black hair sticky at the temples with sweat. A vague nausea rumbles low in his stomach from the nearly botched Guiding effort.

"I owe you a pint after this," Harry pants to the ebbs of **worry** and **frustration** that precede Ron as he comes to stand beside him.

"Mate, you owe me _at least_ three."

Harry huffs a laugh but it dies as soon as he opens his eyes again to the sight of an eerily silent Sentinel being piled into the back of the O.P.P.D car.

For a second, Harry fears that it isn't a zone. That he might have let what was on the inside, _out_. That the broken thing inside him did this to Scabior. The thought has his breath stuttering in his chest.

He doesn't even realise his panic has leaked through his shields until a firm and sure hand rests on his shoulder. A brief, much-welcomed grounding gesture. It quickly snaps him out of his downward spiral and he looks up and meets his friend's familiar, warm blue eyes. Ron says nothing. But then again, he doesn't need to. It's written all over his face and in the faint emotions drifting off him. The questions unspoken but clear. '_Why take him on your own when we had a team for this?_', '_This is the fifth time this past two months that you've done this_', and, of course, the obligatory '_Hermione won't be pleased when she hears about this_'. But all Harry can say is, '_Who said Hermione has to hear about this?_'. Then Ron would give him a _look_ and Harry would rather not bother sticking his foot in it twice in one day. Besides, how could he explain the truth? That he's fighting against this intangible, ever-expanding blackness that threatens to consume him at every moment his mind isn't occupied?

No, Harry can take care of himself, thank you very much. He doesn't need anyone growing up and he doesn't need to be babied because of his sub-gender.

Instead, he says, "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, well, turns out even I'm a stickler for the rules when it comes to safety protocols," Ron replies drily. He pivots beside Harry and — Yes, there it is. The _look_. "Hermione'll want to exchange words later, you know. That's not even considering she finds out from the closed debriefing, mind." He sighs, expression long-suffering and pained. "She'll beat this thing like a dead horse."

Harry gives a faint, wry smile. "She always somehow knows about it, doesn't she…"

"And of course it's also going to be my bloody fault in the end," Ron mutters darkly.

Harry does have the decency to be sorry about that. But Ron just rolls his eyes and makes his way over to the second car. "Come on, then," he calls over his shoulder to Harry. "Let's get this over with and see if our friend over here has anything interesting to say."

But Harry's not quite sure if their 'friend' will have much to say about anything at all. Not in the state Harry put him in, at least.

_He's practically quivering with need and close to begging._

Harry sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight against the intrusive memory.

"_Please, Tom."_

_Too late._

"Alright?" Ron calls, stopping when he realises Harry's fallen behind.

Harry mentally shakes the memory away like smoke, clearing the sudden thickness in his throat. It's hormones from the heat, he tells himself. That's all. He hustles over to catch up with his friend. "Need to clean up when we hit HQ," he says by way of explanation. "I'll meet you in the briefing room?"

Ron bobs his head in a nod. "Yeah, alright." He wrinkles his nose and adds, "You need stronger blockers, mate." He jerks his head in the direction of the cars. "No wonder the tosser went batshit."

Harry feels his face flame a little despite himself. He told himself he wouldn't hide from his secondary gender anymore. But it's one thing to think it and another to have Sentinels able to smell him from miles away. It doesn't exactly lend to his line of work where stealth is vital to success. He can't help but think it would be easier on suppressants. He'd never have to worry... But ever since he found someone to share his heats with, he hasn't bothered. To have it taken care of naturally was... nice.

He shouldn't have gone on this mission. Not when he's this close to his heat. But it feels like if he stands still for too long, he'll be swallowed whole. So he took the chance.

Harry sends his friend a half-hearted glare and swings his shoulder into his, knocking him off balance a bit as they walk. "I'll take that into consideration."

And he would. He can't afford to stop now or the memories will bleed into reality. Then he really will be lost.

"_I need you so much right now," Harry whispers._

* * *

_ORDER OF THE PHOENIX POLICE HEADQUARTERS. 5:20 PM._

Three years after the incident at Basilisk tower, Harry manages to qualify for work at the Order. But not without the considerable weight of a certain older Guide's recommendation. Especially one whose job is to run the department. The same man whose office Harry now sits in, waiting to discuss the latest operation.

"Sir," Harry says, standing when Dumbledore enters. At the other man's dismissive hand gesture, Harry takes his seat again, albeit with a little less grace or cool than he'd like. Despite growing closer over the past couple years and thriving under his tutelage, the older Guide still makes Harry nervous. Still leaves him with a vague sense of awe even when he's practically become Harry's mentor and the closest thing to a parental figure he's ever had in his life.

Dumbledore takes his own seat behind his desk and leans back slowly, the worn brown leather squeaking softly. Aged but wise eyes regard Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "I don't suppose I'd be off the mark in assuming the gentleman you brought in earlier had any more useful information for us?"

Harry shifts nervously in his seat and clears his throat. Dumbledore must have already read him before he even came into the room. It's eerie how powerful the man's Guiding abilities are to be able to pick up his emotions from so far. Harry feels a stab of envy at the loss of his own not-inconsiderable Guide powers. "Er, yes," Harry says, the guilt that's been building up over the past couple hours already weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I think I… It was my fault, sir. I used my… I tried to Guide him and…" he cuts himself off, unable to explain or excuse his grave mistake.

Dumbledore makes a humming sound and steeples his hands under his chin. "Your Guiding abilities are not improving."

"No, sir."

"Most intriguing."

"Sir?"

"It's been quite some time since the departure of your bondmate, has it not, Harry?"

Harry tenses but nods, not trusting himself to speak at the reminder of what he lost in that tower three years ago. His other half and, with it, his ability to safely use his Guide abilities. It was a hard blow that many would consider a miracle he even survived. But sometimes Harry can't help but wonder whether it was worth it. Then another part of him quickly throws the thought away. Tom's sacrifice was, and never will be, in vain.

Dumbledore makes another humming noise, but doesn't push the issue. He never does, and Harry's grateful for that. Ron and Hermione still give him looks when they think he doesn't notice.

"Tell me about our man. Even seemingly useless information may prove valuable…" Dumbledore says. So Harry does. He reports on all that happened after the capture of Scabior and what little information the interviews with him yielded.

He's gotten quite close with everyone in the Order over the years. Especially the head Guide whom he now has the privilege of reporting to right away with his findings on this case they've been working for three years now. A slew of people, ex-convicts or ones known to have ties to criminal organisations, have been reported dead or missing. They still haven't managed to get any closer as of late though. They've got leads, of course. They've got names of sketchy, untouchable people. But they aren't the head of the monster. Just puppets working for a bigger master. It's all still a frustrating puzzle that Harry and his team can't quite figure out yet. A new and unknown menace has emerged. And the only thing they're certain about is the one man standing in their way to getting any closer.

Fenrir Greyback. A lowlife scum who worked for Voldemort but with no solid ties actually connecting him to the man. He's been as slippery as an eel. All they know is that he's got connections. Lots of them. Along with people on his side, most of them inherited from Voldemort after he died. Greyback's proving to be a formidable player. A wall that stands between this new menace and having what Voldemort had. A monopoly in the criminal underworld.

"You think a power vacuum opened up and someone's trying to fill it," Harry concludes.

It's Dumbledore's turn to nod now, his face looking older when he replies, "Regardless of who they are, my concern is whether he or she will be an altogether more formidable enemy than our previous one."

Harry's stomach knots up at the idea. Of some new and horrible monster rising from the depths. But just as the dread rears its ugly head, it slides away again when an intangible hand brushes it away like a bad dream. "Do not fret just yet," Dumbledore says in a calm voice that echoes his Guiding power. "There will be time for that later. For now, we must search and uncover."

Harry lets the retreating presence soothe the last of his nerves before the sound of the chair squeaks again and Harry looks up to find Dumbledore standing. Harry rushes to his feet as well but Dumbledore is in no rush when he comes round and joins him to walk together out of the office. It's when they near the elevators that Dumbledore finally stops and lays a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. There's that now familiar knowing twinkle in his eye again when he says, "Go home, my boy. Rest. Our problems will still be there tomorrow, I'm afraid."

Harry bobs his head. "I will. Thank you, sir."

The hand gives a last squeeze and a pat before letting go and the old man shuffles out of the hall. Harry watches him go before his shoulders slump and he leans against the wall. He digs out his phone from his pocket, finger hovering over an opened chat window. Ready and waiting for him to say the word…

Harry sends off a quick text asking to meet at his apartment that night. After he hits 'send', he leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes against the bright fluorescents overhead, and sighs. The ever-present shame always there. The guilt a low simmer beneath the surface. Why? Why did he still feel like this, after all this time?

Not one minute later, the loud chime of his phone goes off. A far too cheery sound in the otherwise deathly silent hall. A quick glance shows Harry a reply:

_**Took you long enough.**_


	2. Scars

A simple favour. That's how it all starts. He owes Voldemort and when you owe a man like that, the choice is payment or death.

What Voldemort gives him is a gift. Something more precious, more valuable than anything money or power can buy. The only thing that matters, as far as Tom's concerned. Especially after everything he cares about gets taken from him.

Turns out the price for revenge and purpose is a lifetime of servitude. But it's a price Tom's more than willing to pay for his father's death. Nothing else will warm what little is inside him after his mother. Except the fire he lights around the man who helped conceive him. He's been birthed anew now, to a man more powerful than anyone he's ever known.

If only he had seen the shackles before it's too late. Before such a powerful man turned his attention to things that ripped and tore at his sanity and reason. Because it's only then that Tom realises. He's been reeled in by lies and caught in a web spun by an even bigger devil than his old man.

* * *

_WASHINGTON DC, U.S.A. 11:07 PM._

A sleek black Mercedes sits on the curb a few meters down the road from where a government-sponsored event is set to take place. A throng of reports linger restlessly outside, waiting for the target to arrive.

Tom sits and watches, waits and observes. Calculates. But then a memory rises, unbidden, in the small, dark space of the car. Of sitting in one much like it, with the exception of a scent that was sharp, earthy, and sweetly comforting. An aroma that makes Tom think of spice cakes and dark chocolate with a hidden bite.

_Looking over at the pale profile of his mate, Tom's Sentinel sight picks up every detail in the dark. Traces the masculine but delicate features with careful reverence. Lingers on the glare from the streetlights on round glasses, masking the true vibrancy of that titanite gaze beneath them... But not enough for him to miss the glaze marking the beginnings of a deep thought._

_"Focus," Tom says, and watches as a dark pink blooms, spreads up that delicious expanse of neck. Delighted by the path it takes across the other man's cheeks to the tips of his ears. Tom allows a smirk to play round the edges of his mouth. "You'd make an abysmal hit man," he adds._

_Harry takes a vindictive bite out of a chocolate bar he'd stashed in the passenger compartment. "Good." _

The distant blare of a car horn jerks Tom out of the memory, the sound amplifying and reverberating through his skull. Then it cuts off, only to be replaced by the shuffle of feet on pavement along with muffled voices, wind, the clink and scrape of cutlery in a nearby restaurant —

_Stop._

Tom's hands fist the material of his trouser legs. _Deep breath_, he tells himself. Ground yourself. You've been doing it for years. This time is no different.

_Except it is._

Because _he_ isn't here. Hasn't been here for the past few years. Next to Tom, where he should always be. His anchor to what is, and his conduit to _more_. Harry isn't here…

_Not yet_, Tom vows silently. Soon he'll be by Tom's side again. For now, he mustn't think about it. Now, he needs to concentrate. To _focus_.

He's never had to struggle to find control like this. It seems the broken bond left a deeper scar than any mission he's had over the years. The severed union leaves him untethered, unstable, _weak_. His sight sharpens to near molecular level before snapping back to near blindness. He's assaulted with noise one minute and deafened with nothing in the next. His clothes are nails against his skin and become so numb that a hammer to his hand can't make him feel anything.

But what is worst of all is that his sense of smell becomes the least reliable. Although unsurprising, the fact leaves Tom more irascible than anything else. Scent is known to be one of the strongest of the senses when it comes to forming intimate bonds. It's what hooked him to Harry when they met, and the precursor to how he would taste and feel…

It's unacceptable, and at best the situation has frequently left Tom simmering in impotent rage. At worst, it's left him lashing out with oftentimes literal dumb, blind wrath. Hurting and destroying where he can, just because he can. Whether it's with words, fists, or weapons.

But he doesn't have time for that now. Now, he has a mission.

A swell of voices, muffled by the reinforced car door, sounds in the distance and Tom pulls out a small box. Before the commotion outside can grow to potentially distracting levels, he retrieves a set of devices and places them carefully in his ears. A thread of tension instantly seeps from his shoulders at the sound of near-silence. Blessed, regulated noise. The plugs let him hear only what a non-Sentinel would. He pauses for a minute to ground himself further before reaching up to his face.

Tom slowly slides the prescription glasses from his eyes. Despite the shroud of night obscuring everything, he braces himself against the onslaught of imagery. He breathes through it, slowly again, and tries to focus. He anchors himself on a blade of grass a thousand or so meters away. Shivering in a cool, night breeze, vibrant like familiar eyes — _No_, pull back. Tom strains but manages to pull out to the image of a perfectly groomed patch of lawn. Pulls back further to the scuff mark on a cherry red heel five hundred meters away… _Expand, focus,_ until a scene comes into view.

The target pushes through the throng of reporters with too much self importance. Security is lax and Tom honestly can't tell if it's intentional or not. It's an easy hit. Too easy. But that's not what he's here for, not this time.

Tom can concede that Voldemort had some powerful friends, ones in high places indeed. Most of whom either work for Tom now, or else are in the ground; the latter only a courtesy from Voldemort's finest ex-watchdog.

This one, though? Tom's starting to wonder if it's even worth his time. He watches the red face yell and gesticulate, spew forth words that mean nothing. An image flashes through his mind; of a similar face, shouting and spitting. Of a narrow woman and large adult son in a house on the water… All three reduced to nothing but bodies full of bullets. A courtesy, once again, given by Tom himself.

He blinks away the memory, there and gone in a second. It wouldn't even be a blip in his thoughts, normally. All the hits he's made are always carefully and thoroughly filed away afterwards. Never to be opened again or examined except in the rare case where he makes a mistake. The only reason this one resurfaces is because it marks the start of the hunt. The search for what would be his most important assignment to date.

Consciously, reluctantly, Tom turns his attention back to the current assignment. The yellow head of hair waves off reporters with an unrelenting air of arrogance. An inflated ego of a man that might be more of a benefit than a threat. Something Voldemort had undoubtedly seen as well if he managed to make his list of close allies.

But Tom's quickly come to the conclusion that this man is no more than a hindrance rather than an asset. Unpredictable, unreliable. A walking, talking, future liability if he's ever seen one.

A chime sounds in the quiet space of the car, softened by the plugs in his ears. Otherwise Tom's sure it would have thrown off his focus again. He carefully replaces his glasses on his face and slips out a sleek, shiny black phone from his pocket to find a text notification waiting for him.

_**Nott Jr:**_

_(7 Attachments)_

Tom's heart flutters in his chest in the way it never does for any other mission update. With greedy fingers, he opens the message and lets his eyes drink in the images he finds. Allows them to linger on each one as if they're the most rare and interesting art pieces in the world. There's seven in total; seven more to add to his gallery of the past three years of _him_. And still, they aren't enough. They'll never be enough, Tom thinks. Not until he has the real live person in front of him. Not until he can touch, taste, and smell his bondmate in his arms again. Solid and sure, steady and close as a heartbeat.

Each picture is taken at a different location: A cafe, work, home, the store… Tom's heart clenches and aches. The wound in back of his head pulsing like it never closed since that day three years ago… and it never did. Not for either of them, it seems. From Nott's reports, Harry's empathic abilities have greatly diminished, just as Tom's sensory ones have.

But, most importantly, no mate. Tom feels a vicious stab of pride at that. _Of course he wouldn't_. Because Tom would **know** if there was someone else. If there was, he wouldn't be able to stay this far away all these years — trusting, waiting, building. All so that they can have a future someday.

The quiet _ping_ of another message crops up and the small glow that slowly built up in Tom's heart dies a quick, cold death.

A linked news article headline stills his breath as his fists tear into the leather carseat. The phone screen shivers, in danger of cracking and splitting like his carefully controlled composure.

Jaw clenched and with murder in his eyes, Tom finds the driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. "We're done here," he says, clipped. Curt. No explanations necessary. The driver nods, once, and the car peels away from the curb before a hesitant question is asked.

"Any particular place in mind, sir?"

With a searing mixture of urgency and grim determination surging behind tattered mental shields, Tom answers, "Home."

* * *

_LONDON, ENGLAND. 3:07 AM._

Harry wakes with a jolt. The crack of a gunshot still rings in his ears as a sea of red pulses behind his vision. A pair of sharp, dark eyes — forever seared into the back of his eyelids — cuts through the noise like a knife. Like that small smile; one that could kill all on its own.

Once he gets his breathing under control again, Harry checks his shields. Still battered, still bloody, but still mostly in place. His hand reaches out to scrabble on his nightstand until he finds his glasses and shoves them on his face. A quick glance over his shoulder at the platinum blond head beside him settles some of his nerves. Draco's still fast asleep. Harry lets his shoulders drop in relief. The blond prat shouldn't even be there. But Harry was too exhausted from his heat to tell him to bugger off after last night.

The clock on Harry's nightstand glares the time in an angry red and he sighs in resigned frustration. Silently and carefully, he slips out of bed and into the bathroom, flicking on the light and wincing against the brightness. He plucks off his glasses to wash his face with ice cold water. The shock of it chases away the worst of his dreams and the last ghostly glimpses of that face. Banishes it to the pit in the back of his head where it belongs until all that's left is just deadened numbness.

When he replaces his glasses on his nose, his reflection squints back at him in the medicine cabinet mirror. At his skin still dewy with cooling sweat. His chest, more toned now that he's been making an effort to practice some combat skills. Then his eyes catch on the same thing everyone else's does these days: The scar. A crude effort at a brand that now just looks like a lightning bolt shape on his forehead. Pale and stark against his skin. Another reminder of what he's been through. Another reminder of the past… and of _him_.

Harry yanks open the medicine cabinet, tearing away his own stark image to reach for the bottle of electric blue pills. After pouring two into his hand, he grabs the glass next to the sink and fills it under the tap. He drowns the pills with it before filling up another glass.

After slamming the cabinet closed again, Harry pushes away from the sink with a weary sigh. He flicks off the light to feel his way back through the pitch darkness of his room. Yanking on whatever piece of clothing he finds on the ground, he finds the door and slips out into the hall. He heads to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. There's no point in going back to sleep now anyway. There never is on nights like these. Not when the dreams yammer and claw to come out and plague his unconscious.

Harry sits in his tiny living room for what feels like an indeterminable amount of time. Only aware of a cup of tea cooling in his hands as a weak blue-grey light begins to filter in through the windows. From the soft rumble of traffic outside, the city's begun to wake. Harry closes his eyes, and there, as if waiting for him, is the charcoal gaze. The strong hands that grip the back of his neck, connecting him through a thread to a mind; a soul that feels familiar. Like a home he's never had. A low voice rumbles like cool water trickling over jagged rocks.

_"Harry."_

The floorboards creak and Harry's eyes snap open, immediately latching onto the tall, pale figure standing in the corridor.

"Should know by now not to startle you," Draco says. A teasing smirk plays round the corners of his mouth, not quite hiding the uncertainty there. He raises a pale eyebrow at the nearly spilled tea still clutched in Harry's deathly grip. "You're like a deer caught in the headlights."

Harry tries to calm his racing heartbeat and bites back a bitter retort. _'You should know why,'_ he wants to say. But knows Draco won't understand. He never really knew Tom and never had so many people after him. Never had so many try to either fuck or kill him.

Harry silently stands to go over to the kitchen sink. He place his mug there and shoulders past Draco, for all intents and purposes ready to pretend he isn't there.

"You're up early," Draco pushes.

Harry fusses around the kitchen, busying his hands, and shrugs one shoulder. Not up to explaining, least of all to Draco. "Couldn't sleep," he says instead.

Draco slinks into the kitchen and leans a hip against the counter. He folds his arms over his chest and although he isn't as built as Tom was, he's about his height. He looks down at Harry in an infuriating mix of suspicion and reluctant concern. "You were projecting again last night, you know."

Harry freezes, shoulders bunching up before he scrubs harder at the mug.

Draco, finding the bruise as always, presses harder. "I don't know who you think you're fooling, scarhead, but you're fucked up in the head."

This time Harry doesn't hold back. He whirls on Draco and spits, "Then maybe you should fuck off when I tell you to and you wouldn't have to be there to feel it."

Draco doesn't seem to expect the amount of vitriol and raises his hands in a falsely placating gesture. When Harry's chest doesn't feel like it's full of so much fire anymore, Draco puts them back down again and continues. "Come on, Potter, don't you think this charade is getting a little old?" he says, almost wheedling. "You pretend you don't want me to fuck you, we fight, but in the end you WANT me to stay. Just say it!"

Harry grinds his teeth together. "Piss off, Malfoy."

"You're scared."

"You wish."

The shrill tone of Harry's cell goes off, cutting off any further retorts. It's a welcome distraction and Harry almost sighs in relief. He readily abandons the half-hearted attempt to make breakfast for himself to answer it.

"I hope you're sitting down for this."

Although he can't get a Guided reading on his friend, the tone of voice says it all. Something's wrong. "Why? What's happened?" Harry says, even as he shoulders past Draco again into the living room and ignores the pale, watchful eyes that follow him. The Sentinel prick's listening in on the call anyway.

Ron sounds faint now when he replies. "Channel five-oh-three, though I'll wager half the world's news channels are on it by now."

Harry grabs the remote and flicks on the telly while Draco comes to stand beside him. Undoubtedly just as curious and apprehensive about the sudden fuss.

Then the big, bold words at the bottom of the screen register and send a heavy jolt of shock spearing into Harry's heart.

**BREAKING: BELLATRIX LESTRANGE ESCAPES MAX SECURITY PRISON**

A coiffed woman wearing a stern expression reports, "_... At around three o'clock this morning, Azkaban women's prison reported a breakout. The escapee has been confirmed as the convicted murderer Bellatrix Lestrange, former associate for the now-deceased CEO Voldemort of Basilisk Security Solutions. Police are asking for any information regarding her whereabouts…_"

A wave of dread surges up in the pit of Harry's stomach. He's not entirely sure it solely belongs to him though, as Draco's voice hisses beside him: "_Fuck._"


	3. Targets

The night before it happens is the last night of rest he gets. He can't keep his food down. His focus is blurred. And all the while he can only think how it wasn't like this with his father.

He remembers her name, too. Remembers everything about her. A Guide, beta, brown hair, glasses. Squeaky voice that won't stop pleading and shrieking. So much so that he thinks it'll be a relief to get rid of her.

At first it's fine, the knife goes in smooth and easy. Maybe too smooth and easy. Quick, too. Then comes the metallic smell, and the sudden burst of projections. The _**fear**_, _**panic**_ and _**despair**_ so acute that he has trouble shielding himself from it before it's too late. Then like a movie, the life seeps from the eyes and he's helpless to watch as that indefinable _something_ inside just vanishes. Drains away like so much blood. It's all he can see for the rest of the night and the ones that follow until the next time, and the next.

He doesn't think it can get easier, but it does. After that first one, there's too many eyes to count, too much blood to keep track.

So he stops counting. He forgets her name.

* * *

Harry marches down the hall toward the briefing room and stops. Exhaustion pulls at him and he knows he's going to need a big cup of something to survive whatever comes next. So Harry beelines to the nearest staff kitchen and grabs a cup of sludge-black coffee. He winces at the first scalding sip but downs the rest like it will somehow chase away the dread and the nerves. It's when he comes out later with a second cup that Hermione spots him in the hall.

"I take it you heard the news," she says as she rushes over, though it isn't really a question. He gives a grave nod anyway as they walk together and replies, "Ron rang, gave me the heads up." Hermione sighs, biting her lower lip as her brow creases. "Can you believe it?" she says. "The Ministry's in chaos. I've never seen so many people actually come into work." Harry's mouth twitches at that. It must not reach his tired eyes though because Hermione sends him another worried frown that he does his best to ignore.

They arrive at a door at the end of the hall and Hermione pulls on the handle, opening it to a room full of noise and people. Harry stops in the doorway and has to take a moment to adjust. To fortify his patchwork shields and dull the bubbling _**panic**_, _**anger**_, _**confusion**_ to a simmering boil. A cool touch to his elbow lets him know Hermione understands.

When he's able to open his eyes again, McGonagall is immediately spotted at the front. The rest of the room is meanwhile filled with what appears to be the entire Order department. Harry thinks he even sees Luna's cloud of pale blonde hair in a corner.

"Oi, over here!"

From a row in the middle, Ron waves them over to a pair of seats on either side of him. They sit and Ron greets Hermione with a kiss on her forehead and a squeeze round her shoulders. A common grounding technique Sentinels use with their Guides. Harry tries not to acknowledge the longing pang in his gut and turns his attention to the rest of the room. He jerks his head and says, "What's all this then?"

"Apparently we weren't the only ones called up to meet with the head of operations," Ron explains and Harry snorts. "Looks like Dumbledore wanted everyone to know what's up. Blimey, though... Batty Bella escapes prison? No wonder everyone's knickers are in a twist."

Harry's skin crawls and knows it isn't just the thought of one of Voldemort's assassins out for blood that has the hairs on his neck prickling. He casts a surreptitious eye around the room, and there, on the other side of the room and a few seats back.

Theo Nott sits dressed in one of his expensive suits with his arms crossed over his chest. Clearly also pretending not to stare. Harry meets his gaze boldly though, and Nott flinches before looking away. But it's not before Harry catches a trace of something like fear in his eyes. Harry frowns before turning back to face the front.

Nott's always been a bit of an enigma and Harry doesn't trust that. He also doesn't like that Nott is the only other person other than Ron and Hermione to know about him and Draco. Harry suspects the beta Guide isn't fond of the arrangement. Either because he's pining after Draco himself or for some other snobbish reason. Either way, Harry doesn't care. If Harry knows Draco's friend group at all, he knows Nott is likely a traditionalist. And undoubtedly subscribes to the school of thought that an omega should be collared and put in their place.

The soft click of the door sounds and all chattering stops. A gentle yet commanding blanket of calm washes over the room, signalling Head Guide Dumbledore's arrival. He makes his way to the front of the room where he sits off to the side and nods toward McGonagall. She clears her throat and turns back to the room.

"Right, if I could have everyone's attention," she begins in her Scottish brogue. "As you may already know, there's been a recent incident at Azkaban women's prison where Bellatrix Lestrange has escaped." A chorus of whispers start up at that and she claps her hands together causing it to die down again. She aims a stern look around the room before continuing. "Now, normally we wouldn't have called such a rush meeting, except that the prisoner is a known former associate of Voldemort. Our latest and biggest case in this department. I'm sure we're all also aware of her previous target, and that it happens to be one of our very own."

There's a pregnant pause where Harry feels like the entire room narrows in on him. He swallows and tries to refrain from squirming in his seat under the attention. Thankfully, it doesn't last long as McGonagall swiftly presses on. "But while we can guess at motives and speculate over possible targets, we cannot proceed without solid facts. Mr Creevey will now report on the details surrounding Ms Lestrange's escape. Mr Creevey? Please share with us the footage you've retrieved from the prison's CCTV footage earlier this morning."

Someone flicks off the lights and the room plunges into semi-darkness. The spotlight of an overhead projector snaps on, illuminating a grainy video file on the wall. The room watches the stilted clip of what can only be Bellatrix Lestrange slipping out of prison in silence. There are dark spots staining her clothes and Harry feels ill at the realisation that it can only be blood.

There's been casualties then.

The film ends and the projector switches off but the tense silence holding the room remains. Fear and tension build and press around Harry like a vice, his shaky shields taking the brunt of it. It only breaks a little when Dumbledore finally drifts to the front to address them all.

"This is an unfortunate but sadly unsurprising turn of events," Dumbledore begins. "And I understand that there is cause for considerable anxiety. But we must not give into it. The safety and lives of the people in this city depend on our unwavering vigilance and bravery."

"It is our firm belief that this event is connected with an ongoing case of ours. As many of you know, a team led by Mr Potter and myself have been following a string of murders reported around the world for some time now. Further investigation finally revealed a connection between the murders, however, and that is that the victims have had ties to organised criminal enterprises. It is only until recently that a more direct link has been revealed. As many of you may know, the latest body was found with a distinct marking..." A picture of an arm, recognisable from recent news tabloids, flashes up on the wall behind Dumbledore. A picture of the inside of a wrist, the skin burned in the shape of a skull and snake.

Harry immediately thinks of Draco. Of the way he caught Harry looking one time and held up his forearm. The skull and snake tattoo stark against pale and otherwise unblemished skin. _"Looks like more than one of us weren't left unmarked by him after all,"_ he'd said with a snort. _"We called it the 'Dark Mark', you know… I think he liked that."_

Most of the Order knows of the Malfoy family's past connections to Voldemort. But unlike Ron and Hermione - and Theo Nott now, too - they don't know about _him and Harry_. And Harry's had an earful from both his friends on their thoughts about that. Claiming it 'poses a serious security risk' (Hermione's words) to which Harry would reply that her concern was duly noted. "_Besides"_, he'd add when feeling particularly pressed. "_We don't have that close of a connection anyway. We just fuck occasionally."_

This pointing out of the fact does not go over well, of course. Hermione always gives him a flat look, mouth pressed firm in disapproval. Ron would look vaguely nauseous.

Harry understands. But he also can't stop. Because they don't know what it's like to have a void inside you. A gaping hole that nothing except those brief moments with Draco can fill. Or, at the very least, make him forget.

Harry focuses back on the picture projected at the front of the room again. It's all anyone could talk about for the past few months. Igor Karkaroff, notable figure of one of the world's most prestigious schools, found dead in a hotel room with a mysterious burn mark on his arm.

But then another image pops up on the screen. This one of a slighter arm. One Harry's studied himself many times over to come to the inevitable conclusion - "It is a mark," Dumbledore continues. "That is a near identical match to the one Bellatrix Lestrange wears on her own forearm." The room explodes in another bout of murmurs but Dumbledore forges on. "From this, we can conclude that the mark is tied to the late CEO of Basilisk Security Solutions', Voldemort. We can also assume that the revelation of this mark to the public and the timing of her escape is too much of a coincidence for there not to be a definite connection."

Another picture replaces the ones on the screen. This one a simple mugshot of Bellatrix herself. Another image that's now become infamous in the public eye. Wide, piercing black eyes stare at the camera in an antagonising manner while wild and knotted black hair frame a pale, bony face littered with cuts and dark purple and yellow bruising.

A small shudder travels up Harry's spine. He's seen the recovered CCTV footage of the altercation between Tom and Bellatrix in Basilisk tower. Studied it and kept a copy for himself for when the broken bond gets to be too much. It's the only thing he has left of his mate. Something to prove that he was real and not a figment of Harry's imagination all this time. Although he doesn't need it, of course; it's one of the many scenes that still haunts him to this day. Of his bondmate, battered and bleeding. A man who never broke a sweat in any other circumstance except this one. Struggling through pain to take down the wild and feral animal that is Bellatrix Lestrange.

But from the looks of it, Tom clearly did a number on her as well and a shameful, dark twist of pride curls in Harry's belly at that knowledge.

_You did that. To protect us._

"The remaining mystery now is whether this mark means Bellatrix is a target or a possible accomplice to this new killer," Dumbledore continues, then pauses as a darker expression clouds his face. "And although it saddens me to say, we cannot entirely rule out the possibility that she might try and finish a job. Which, in this case, is exacting revenge."

"Who's she out to get then?" someone in the crowd asks.

"Obvious, isn't it?" A woman replies - Parvati, if Harry remembers correctly. She turns and jerks her chin behind her. "She wants him."

The entire room follows suit until all eyes are on Harry once again. His heart sinks into his toes, though he knew from the moment he heard the news that Bellatrix would likely come for him.

Dumbledore clears his throat once and all eyes return to the front. "Quite correct, Mrs Patil," he says in that ever-calm tone. "It seems our resident omega has once more found himself in the crosshairs of one of the most dangerous persons in the United Kingdom."

Harry purses his lips, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He's never been fond of being the centre of attention. Now was no different.

"That said, it is now up to this division to protect him, and preferably with more success than the last time. The good Ms McGonagall will be assigning teams. One for protection of the 'asset', as it were, and the other to find and stop Ms Bellatrix Lestrange. Understood?"

When no protest arose, he swept the room with one final, calculating look before giving a sage nod. "There we are. McGonagall? If you will, please."

McGonagall steps forward, clipboard in tow, and peers down her spectacles at everyone. "Right. Listen carefully, because this will be the most important case our division's undertaken for years…"

While she talks, Dumbledore weaves himself through the small gathering to reach Harry. With a muttered, "If you'd be so kind, Harry?" he heads for the door.

Harry leaves his friends with a brief, dread-filled glance and receives a reassuring pat on his arm from Ron in return.

When he joins Dumbledore out in the hall, they immediately begin to walk. Nerves catching up to him, Harry asks, "Where are we going?"

"The cafeteria, of course," Dumbledore replies. "I hear they're serving custard tarts today. Quite delicious."

"Right…" Harry says, then pushes on a moment later. "Listen, am I going to have to go back to a safe house? Because — "

"Seeing as how that arrangement faired so poorly last time," Dumbledore says, cutting off what would have been a gear up to a fine tirade. "It might be in everyone's best interest that we try something a little different this time around. It's almost a shame your... unconventional protector is no longer able to assist us as he'd once done so thoroughly."

Harry braces against the spike of longing and sorrow at the mention of his former bondmate. He's gotten better at hiding it over the years but there's something about today that has the bruise feeling more tender. His head feels heavy all of a sudden. A possible result of the dreams? Harry can't tell. Either way, he hopes he hides enough of it from the older Guide. Though Harry doubts anyone can keep anything from the old man for long.

His fears are answered a second later when a soothing touch of empathy brushes against his mind. Harry can't help the flush of embarrassment and shame. Even though they, too, are soon tempered by the mental touch.

"We don't always fall for the ones we're supposed to love, or for the ones others tell us are good for us," Dumbledore says knowingly. Harry's head jerks up at that but the old Guide is already facing away and they continue walking in silence.

They eventually reach the cafeteria when Dumbledore speaks again. "All the same, my boy, I believe you possess all the tools you need to protect yourself this time. All we need is to make sure you're as prepared as you can be. We'll have to let the beast come to us this time, and strike when we must. I don't think there's any other option available. Do you?"

Harry looks at him and swallows. "No." There wasn't, not when it was Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, a sudden pressure stabbing him behind the eyes.

"Something wrong?" Dumbledore asks.

Harry gives a tight-lipped smile. "Nothing, sir. Just a headache, s'all."

Dumbledore hums and looks at him for a long moment. "You know, when I lost my own bondmate, I found that strength could be found even in the most darkest of places, if one only remembers to turn on the light."

Harry stills. "You lost your bondmate?" The revelation is shocking but it doesn't quite sink in at first. He's sure this isn't common knowledge and yet Dumbledore just dropped the fact on him like it was.

"As good as," Dumbledore says softly, which only confuses Harry more but he doesn't elaborate. Instead Dumbledore reaches into his pocket to retrieve a round golden object and holds it up for Harry to see. It's an intricately patterned little paper weight of some sort. "It's my totem of strength in adversity and serves to remind me that things are never quite as bleak as they seem." He pockets it again and treats Harry to a teasing smile. "Comes in rather handy as a weapon too, I'll admit."

Harry huffs a bemused laugh, the last of his nerves melting away with it. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle behind his glasses and he places a hand on his shoulder to give it a brief, comforting squeeze. "Come now, let's see about those tarts."

* * *

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

It's the day after the briefing and he's had little to no sleep. Other than the brief snatches he got here and there at work; wherever it feels safe enough.

Harry scratches the back of his neck as he sits on the examining table in Luna's office. It's a nice place. Cheery, with sunlight and plants and books. A wooden desk is shoved in the corner with papers and knick knacks scattered across the surface in a wild but somehow charming disorganisation.

"Er, had some headaches recently…" Harry begins with a non-committal shrug. "Otherwise nothing out of the ordinary."

Luna hums, flitting about the room and plucking papers and books from here and there. "You haven't been in for a while," she observes.

"Yeah, turns out being a possible target for a hitwoman can keep you pretty busy…"

Pale eyes sparkle at him over a shoulder draped in blonde hair. "Of course. Have you considered going to see Dr Pomfrey again? I imagine being a target again can bring up some… unwanted memories and feelings for you."

Harry stiffens. "No. I, uh… That's alright." He struggles to explain his discomfort and reluctance at the idea. He's never found the concept of talking about his feelings comforting or helpful. In his experience it's always painful, always leaves him feeling more weighted down afterwards. He can't afford that now. So he says, "I'm okay. I'm… dealing with it."

Luna looks at him but he doesn't meet her gaze this time. She doesn't say anything about it though, and when she takes a seat in the plush navy blue armchair, she asks him some more physical health questions. He relaxes.

"Have you been taking the medication prescribed by Dr Pomfrey?"

Harry's mind flashes back to the bottle of blue pills in his apartment and nods. "Yeah."

"Do you think they might be helping?" she asks softly.

He thinks of the hollow state and how nothing can be worse than that. "Yes," he answers. Luna nods and writes something down. But Harry tenses right back up by what she asks next. "And how are your heats? You haven't been taking any more suppressants, I take it."

"They're fine. Better, now that I have… someone."

Luna bobs her head again and scribbles another thing down on her chart. "Are you taking any birth control?"

Harry stills. He looks at her for a moment and can't help the scoff that escapes his mouth. When she only blinks at him, he says, "You can't be serious…"

She looks entirely serious. Though, to be fair, it isn't always easy to read Luna most of the time. She's good at shielding so he never gets a stray emotion, negative or positive. It's a relief, really. Harry feels like he doesn't need to be so guarded. He knows he's always in good hands with her.

When Luna only raises a pale eyebrow, Harry gawps like a fish. "That's not… it's not possible. For people like me."

"It's unlikely," Luna gently corrects in her airy voice. She stands before drifting over to hop up on the examination table beside Harry. "But I wouldn't say it's impossible."

Harry frowns, an oily feeling stirring in his stomach. He swallows. "I… that can't happen."

She tilts her head in a curious but non-judgemental way. "You don't want children?"

"That not - that's not why - " Harry flounders, not quite sure what he's trying to say. Only knowing that the idea is too _big_ right now. _Too much._ "I'm just not ready. My body isn't built for… for _that_."

"It's true that in the rare case in which a male omega conceives, the mortality rate during childbirth is higher than that of other dynamics…" Harry pales, clutching the sides of the table in a white-knuckled grip. His vision tunnels when a soft, cool hand places itself over his. His grip loosens by a degree. At the added wash of calm against his mind, he looks up into cloudy blue eyes. He clings to the comfort he finds there. "But there are procedures that can be done to drastically reduce that rate when performed by a proper medical staff. We've come a long way in that area now, Harry."

He nods numbly and shifts. "Right," he says, and clears his throat in the hopes that it won't sound so strangled. "Are we done then?"

She graces Harry with an understanding smile. "Of course, Harry," she replies. "Please let me know if those headaches get any worse." He nods and she watches as he gathers his things. Her legs kick out slightly where she sits on the examining table, like a child on a chair that's too big for them. Just as Harry's got a hand on the doorknob though, he stops at the sound of her voice. "Remember you can always come round and see me any time." She looks tentative and earnest sitting there in the sunlit office. A warmth floods Harry. This time he manages a genuine smile in return. "Thanks, Luna."

His head is foggy when he walks back out the building. The conversation with Luna swirling round with the ever-growing thoughts of Bellatrix Lestrange. Where was she now? Was she watching him? Does she know what he and Luna talked about? Can she somehow use that against him?

Harry throws a look over his shoulder for the third time in five minutes. No one. _There's no one following you_, he tells himself. But speeds up just in case. He'll be getting his own security detail assigned to him tomorrow. He wishes the idea was more comforting. Wishes he felt more safe knowing that a hit were less likely in a crowded, public place like the one he's in now. Emotions and voices and sounds slide over and through him. He marches on when a baby's cry makes him flinch.

Children, and the idea of a family in general, is more than appealing. In fact, it's all he's ever wanted in life.

And he'd almost had that, once.

Until it all got torn to shreds with a well-aimed bullet. Now the idea is too heartbreaking to even conceive. He can only hope that one day he'll visit the idea again. When the trench in his head doesn't press in on him so much.

Harry shoves his hand into his coat pocket until his fingers wrap around a little tube of Tylenol. God, his head hurt.


	4. Ghosts

_**A/N:** Hi, just a heads up to anyone reading this here that I'll only be posting one more chapter before packing it up. The story will continue on AO3 but there doesn't seem to be a point in continuing to crosspost here anymore. Other than that, hope all three of you enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

In the beginning there's rage. It's the one thing he knows more intimately than anything else. Before he can even understand the world around him, he understands his silent companion. The pulsing in his heart with every step he takes, with every breath. It travels with him through his younger years. Anger, wrath, menace, hatred. They're one and the same to him. His centre. His Guide when none dare go near him.

Which is why it comes as little surprise when someone eventually _notices_ it. When they see the potential he has and ask if he'd like to know how to use it _properly_. How to hone it into a tool he can use against others.

His name's Voldemort and he can show him things. How to sneak, unscented and unheard, into places. How to get back at those who wrong him and erase himself from the world completely until he's nothing more than a shadow. A ghost for others to fear, lurking in the dark corners of their lives.

But by far the most valuable lesson he learns, perhaps, is how to use the knowledge to make people _hurt_.

Tom likes being part of something bigger too, something special. Having power over others is intoxicating. Which is when the real hunger starts to appear. It crawls up close on the heels of rage. A deeper thirst for knowledge, for skill. He learns what he can from the men and women who come back from jobs Voldemort sends them on, smelling of death and power.

It's in these moments Tom knows what he wants most in the world, and it's then that he decides he'll stop at nothing to get it.

* * *

"Your dear sister-in-law's been up to things lately."

Lucius looks up from his desk of paperwork in time to find a well-dressed man enter his study.

"Or so I've heard..." Nott adds with a smug smile.

Setting down his pen, Lucius leans back in his chair to regard the other man with a cool gaze. "What a pleasantly unexpected surprise," he says with a wry curve to his mouth. Nott returns the gesture until Lucius cracks a chuckle and gets up to meet the other man for a brief embrace and a handshake. "Nott, old boy. I feel as though I've hardly seen you lately."

Nott cuts a sly grin in reply. "Business, Lucius, I thought you'd know all about it. Or have you just been sipping martinis all this time I've been away?"

A shrewd, chastening look is Nott's only response as Lucius gestures to one of the plush leather seats by the fireplace in the corner. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Nott sinks into the chair and crosses one leg over the other, helping himself to the case of cigars Lucius offers him. "Don't mind if I do," he says, squinting up at the other man in a considering manner. Lucius knows the look well. It's the kind of look that says he's got something to share but won't. The kind that says Lucius will have to play his game if he wants to find out more.

The silver cigar case snaps closed before returning to its place on the mantel. Lucius turns to regard his friend with a carefully impersonal curiosity. "Speaking of business," he begins. "You must tell me what's been keeping you so preoccupied."

"Always wanting in on the action, eh, Lucius?"

"Nothing of the sort."

Nott chuckles at the lie and sucks on his cigar. His face turns contemplative as he gazes into the fireplace. "Well, it hasn't been a ride in the park so far. But when has anything that's worthwhile been easy?" His gaze turns to fix on Lucius. "It's partly why I came here today."

A knowing smirk curls Lucius' lip. "You mean the pleasure of my company and our mutual shared history isn't what brings you? Shocking."

Nott cackles. "Cutting as ever, old friend, but no. I've been in touch with a powerful investor who happens to be quite interested in your plans for Basilisk tower."

Lucius straightens at that. Any mention of their old employers' building in the past years has been unfailingly followed by considerable strain and stress. Now is no different. But Lucius tries to cover the slip in control by looking away and focussing on his own cigar, examining it between his fingertips. "And why would your investor be interested in that old ruin? It's scheduled for demolition. Going to be a shopping plaza soon, I believe…"

"Well, I'm obliged to tell you that he would be ever-so-keen should those plans not come to fruition…"

Lucius raises an eyebrow at the carefully veiled threat. "Oh? And why is that, might I ask?"

Nott shrugs, the action far too nonchalant for the subject matter. The man is indeed hiding something. But when were men like them ever not hiding something?

"Let's just say he's got his plans for it. Big plans," Nott says by way of explanation. "Would pay a pretty penny too, might I add. In addition to his services too, of course."

Lucius' pale eyebrow creeps higher and his smirk returns. "I see."

Nott nods, gaze carefully veiled but his attention unwavering. "Wants to set up shop in London. Prime spot for his… endeavours."

"Well, I look forward to meeting with him to discuss such endeavours."

"Ah, but therein lies the catch, old fellow. He wants to remain anonymous, you see. At least for the moment."

Lucius' curiosity piqued more and more by the minute. "How intriguing," he hummed, and sucked on his cigar thoughtfully.

Nott blows out a plume of smoke between his lips. "He's the real deal, Lucius. I'd take the offer seriously if I were you." He gives him a look Lucius reads as one implying the situation should be taken far more seriously than already anticipated.

_Ah._ He thinks he might be getting a fuller picture now. Lucius is no stranger to under-the-counter _arrangements_, however. Not when his last business partner was Britain's most infamous crime lord. He also considers himself to be a smart businessman and knows a good deal when he sees it. "I take it he's a man of his word, then?"

"Oh, that he is," Nott says, and by the gravity of his answer Lucius' assumptions are confirmed. He nods and Nott's shoulders relax; their business is concluded. Although Lucius can't help but give the other man a curious, lingering squint.

"How's your boy, Lucius? Still up to his usual escapades?" Nott asks as he gets up to pour himself a drink from the side board.

A dagger of resignation spears through Lucius at the reminder of his son and what he's been up to lately. He briefly considers lying. But in the end, he decides, it might do some good to vent a little. He heaves a sigh and confesses. "If by 'usual escapades' you mean mooning after a broken omega like some lovesick pup, then I suppose the expression is apt."

Nott becomes statue-still in the corner of his eye and his hands visibly tighten around the glass of whiskey. "Oh?" The word comes out strained, strung tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Lucius glances over to find his guest staring into his drink as if it might drown him. "I don't suppose that broken omega would happen to be…?"

"The one and only, of course," Lucius says, bemused by his companions' sudden discomfort but unable to hide the bitterness in his tone. "That Harry Potter boy is nothing short of a menace. He and his friends are beginning to poke around in Greyback's business now. It won't be long before I'm having to call up my lawyers…" He trails off at his companion's sudden silence. "Is something the matter?"

Nott's eyes snap to Lucius and his face is white as a sheet. "Potter and Draco have been… having _relations_?"

Lucius bristles at Nott's tone and his frown deepens. "Well, I hardly imagine it can be treated as so illicit when Draco's been cleared of all charges relating to our... previous acquaintance. Neither are the two mated to someone else."

Lucius' ears picks up the soft click of Nott's throat as he swallows. The man sets his glass down on the wooden side table with a firm _thud_ and when he explains, Lucius is perplexed to hear him suddenly sound so short of breath. "I… I'm sorry, old boy. If you'll excuse me, I have an urgent matter to attend to." He gets up, ignoring Lucius' questions, and continues, "I'll… keep in touch about what's been discussed."

He almost runs into Narcissa on his way out the door, looking disoriented and pale. Narcissa frowns at his retreating figure and exchanges a curious look with her husband. "Is there something the matter?" she asks.

Lucius shakes his head. "Business matters," he says by way of explanation. Narcissa glides further into the room and Lucius notes the delicate crease between her eyebrows. "I feel I should be asking you the same question. You seem perturbed."

She comes to him at his extension of an arm. She shakes her head minutely, as if uncertain about something. "It's only…" she trails off when he hums against her neck, the silver bite mark of his bond shining more brightly than any wedding ring. "Speak your mind, my love."

"It's nothing. I only thought I felt something from Nott."

"And what would that be, dearest?"

She exposes more of her neck for her bondmate to access. "Fear," she whispers. "He reeked of it."

Lucius pauses, nose pressed against her neck. The sweet floral musk wafting from it cool and soothing. "How strange," he murmurs. But then a hand comes up to cup his cheek and all else is forgotten.

* * *

A month passes and there's nothing. No word, no sign, no threatening messages. Just silence, all-encompassing and menacing. Under normal circumstances Harry would consider this cause for celebration. But considering the Order's most wanted criminal is still on the loose and out for his blood, the lull in activity is less than comforting. Because every passing minute is a minute more of plotting.

In the meantime, he's assigned his own security detail. Harry's introduced to a pair of long-time Ministry members: Nathair Mulciber and Ormand Avery. Somewhat familiar faces from its security department. But not familiar enough that some mandatory vetting isn't warranted first. They're outsourced help, after all. The Order can't spare the manpower for their own special security. Not now when every resource is being expended on the capture of Bellatrix. But although Harry isn't cooped up in a flat this time, having his every step watched isn't a huge improvement.

The fact that his next heat is fast approaching also doesn't help matters. Infrequent and inconvenient as they are after the loss of his bondmate, at least he doesn't have to deal with them on his own any more. If he goes on suppressants now - or so he's told - it'll only do more harm than good for a Guide like him. A _broken one_, is what they don't say.

Harry's pocket chirps with an incoming text. He swipes at a damp brow and pulls out his cell. It's another message from Draco and Harry lets out a grunt of annoyance. The blond Sentinel git always knows exactly when his heat is coming. It wouldn't be so bad considering that going through one alone was agony. But the bastard has to be obnoxious about it, of course; sending him taunting texts and lewd photos. Harry frequently toys with the idea of sharing them round the office but knows he'd only be paying for it in the end.

Because as much as it pains him to admit it, he needs Draco.

Suppressants are no longer an option, and not only for the effect they'll have on his health. But because scrubbing away that part of his record had been difficult enough already. He's officially logged into the system now; Harry James Potter, Guide, _omega_. The media will have a field day if it ever came to light he's on illegal suppressants. The department will come under fire and he'll most likely lose his job.

The only other viable option is finding someone else to help him through his heats. But the idea quickly makes Harry's skin crawl. Not only does having a different face in bed all the time hold no appeal but the effort to vet them first is exhausting. If it isn't a 'meaningful relationship' they want, it's the glamour of bedding the world's most infamous omega Guide. Because despite the years separating him from the events at Basilisk tower, he's still a rarity. A source of endless fascination for the the rest of the world. The demise of the head of a wealthy security company and later revealed crime lord.

The fact that Harry also somehow survived a bond breaking is only the cherry on top. He's a media sensation, the so-called 'Man Who Lived'.

Harry blows out a sigh and flicks his phone to 'silent', pocketing it without answering the text. He's got more pressing matters than his biological clock to deal with at the moment.

Nothing happens for the rest of the week. The apprehension grows and sits like a stone in the pit of Harry's stomach. All the while his skin becomes more sensitive, flushed, itchy. It doesn't help that work - the only thing keeping his mind from exploding with paranoia - isn't an option anymore. Not after Hermione practically orders him to take a heat leave. Although he's mastered the art of shielding, he's still unable to control what he smells like to others in the office. The Sentinels would've been going cross-eyed with him hanging around all the time.

But after days of holing up in his flat, Harry is ready to vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't do _something_. So he tugs on his coat, dark blue with a special scent-blocking lining, and heads downtown. He keeps his head down to avoid recognition and feels his shadows keeping pace a few meters behind him. Although it should be comforting, a cloying feeling chokes him. His heart races. There's an itch at the back of his mind, a constant pin-prick that's driving him crazy. He looks over his shoulder again but only finds a few scattered pedestrians, some cars and, of course; the two dark shapes of his security detail.

_It has to be them_, Harry thinks. Why else would he be feeling this hammering pulse of urgency? The logical part of his brain rejects the reasoning though. They're a nuisance, sure, but shouldn't feel like a threat to him. Could it be his heat? It's never felt like this before.

Harry quickens his step.

But lost as he is in a dark swirling cloud of thoughts, he quickly collides into something solid. He stumbles backward with a grunt when arms shoot out to steady him with a strong grip. Harry goes to mutter an apology or a thanks when what he hears next makes him freeze.

The man takes in an unmistakably deep breath and the hands tighten a fraction round his arms. Harry's whole body stiffens and he jerks back.

But the grip won't give.

Panic flares and he glances back to where Mulciber and Avery were last -

Only to find they're gone.

Fear, heavy and sharp, blooms in his stomach. A dark whisper slithers through his head but he can't make out the words. Harry tugs harder until the hold finally releases. He stumbles back only to meet his own reflection, flushed and sweaty, staring back at him through a pair of dark Ray-Bans. He takes in the rest of the man; shrouded in a black hoodie and scarf wrapped tightly round his neck. The man says nothing, does nothing. Neither back away nor moves forward.

Rattled, baffled, and irritated, Harry begins to stalk away on unsteady legs. _Fucking Sentinels_, he thinks. It must also be a testament to how fogged his mind is because he swears the pain in his head chooses that moment to spike. But as soon as it's there, it's gone again. And just in time too, because he spots Mulciber and Avery loitering up ahead.

With the pin-prick sensation of eyes on his back, Harry hurries along the street. The need to crawl out of his skin is unbearable now. When he reaches his security personnel, he growls under his breath, "Where the fuck were you two?" before pushing past them toward his block of flats.

Harry's just made it back in his flat when he rips off his stifling coat. He continues to strip as he marches through the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind. His whole body feels like one big beating, tender, exposed organ. His head throbs, his breath is shallow. He rubs at his temples, fingers sliding against beads of sweat before pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. There's a strange pressure pushing at the fringes of his mind. It's been growing ever since he started making his way home. A looming presence that is hauntingly familiar. One that reminds him of a time in Grimmauld Place all those years ago…

But he can't think about that now. It's in the past and nothing will change that. He can't believe that after all these years he still suffers from phantom feelings. Shadows of emotion. Lingering pulses of a searing connection. A strong and beautiful one. So horribly severed in the aftermath of Voldemort and his ersatz security company.

Harry grabs for the small medicinal bottle next to his bed and pops the cap. Two electric blue pills slide out into his damp palm and he swallows them dry. In the next moment his head hits the pillow and for once there's nothing.

But it feels like only five minutes later when he's jerking awake again.

It's pitch dark outside and the clock on his side table blinks the time back at him - 3:00 AM.

There's something wrong.

This isn't a normal onset of heat. Harry briefly contemplates calling Luna. He even goes so far as to snatch up his phone but stops at the sight of multiple missed calls and texts from Draco.

He should call him. He really should...

But Harry hesitates over the call back button for too long. Long enough that he eventually lets out a frustrated sigh and chucks the thing onto the bed where the rest of him follows later. He lies there, staring up at the blurred darkness of his room and ignores the dull throb in his skull with little success. His hand manages to find its way to his chest, tacky with sweat, and rests there. Palms over where a strange ache has been slowly building. Has kept building ever since his outing on the streets hours earlier.

Harry grimaces, grits his teeth, and breathes through the frustration. Through the pain and sadness. But it doesn't go away. It doesn't even help.

Of course it won't.

Harry angrily clambers out of bed and advances on his closet to yank on his running gear. A jog might be able to take the edge off. Burn away some of this strange energy that won't leave him alone. It looks like it'll be nearing sunrise soon so it's as good a time as any.

The crushing feeling chases Harry out of the flat and down the street. It must finally be hitting him he's being targeted again. It has to be why he's feeling so trapped. Bellatrix is out there, somewhere, waiting to make her move or for Harry to make his.

He runs, feet pounding a steady rhythm in the early morning darkness. A soothing metronome to his chaotic state of mind. A balm that seems to work, too, but only for a little while.

When his shadow stretches out along the sidewalk in front of him, Harry's step slows to a stop. Heaving through a burning chest, he squints over at the black car idling about three hundred meters away. Headlights glare back at him but he already knows who they are.

Gritting his teeth, Harry resumes his jog at a more brisk pace. Although he knows they're meant to be a comfort, the thought of shaking off Mulciber and Avery holds appeal at the moment. Harry finds it difficult to believe the two men would be any real help when faced with an ex-hit woman of Voldemort's anyway. There's already cameras monitoring the front doors of the building of flats day and night. It also doesn't hurt that Harry's on the seventh floor. So even if the front door is blasted to bits and security mowed down, there's still a ways to go yet.

The steady needling at the corners of Harry's mind drives him on. It pushes against his focus, spinning his empathy like a dial in every direction. He's only ever felt this once before. But Harry shakes himself from that line of thought. That was years ago. It's in the past, nothing more than a strange and dangerous chapter in his life now.

So he runs. He runs until the needling dims to numbness and the memories fade to background noise. There's nothing but the pounding of his feet on the sidewalk, of his heart behind his ribs. Only until what could have been minutes or hours later does he finally come to a halt in the park. Harry stands with his hands on his hips, sucking in deep lungfuls of the cool, early morning air. Head tilted up, he takes in the lightening sky overhead. His breath fogs the air and his eyes close.

Then a shrill cry tears through the quiet moment like a siren and his eyes snap open again. Harry casts a wild look round himself, half-expecting someone to be there but there's no one.

He quickly realises the sound is coming from him.

Frowning, Harry pats himself down until he digs out his cell. He stares at the screen as it continues to shriek with an incoming call.

An unknown number.

He hesitates for only half a second before answering. "Hello?" he breathes, heavy and shaking.

But only silence comes through on the other end.

"Hello?" he says, more strongly now as a chill begins to run down his spine. He's starting to break out in a cold sweat. He's gearing himself up... He needs to calm down...

When nothing but silence continues on the other end, he hangs up. He stares down at his phone, then up at the empty park around him. He's alone. He's...

Harry's stomach drops.

He's _completely alone _and the security detail are nowhere to be seen. For a moment, Harry considers the likelihood of Bellatrix having something to do with this and tries not to panic. His jangled nerves only worsen when his phone goes off again.

Harry thumbs the receiving button with more force than necessary. When there's only silence on the line again, he demands, "Who is this?"

A soft static finally comes through, then a long crackle like a sigh before a low, rumbling voice speaks.

"_Harry..._"

The hairs on harry's arm stand up and he holds his breath. Distorted as it is, there's something familiar about the voice. He tries not to let his voice shake when he says, "Who are you?"

The voice hums. "_It's good,"_ it says slowly, as if savouring the moment. _"To hear your voice again._"

"Who -" Harry begins when the voice cuts him off.

"_You've been following my work._" Harry freezes, knuckles turning white from the grip he has on his phone. "_Picking up the trail of breadcrumbs... Ever the clever little omega..._" Words stall in Harry's throat and his breathing comes heavy and harsh. "_But now you're in danger,_" the voice on the other end continues, sounding oddly remorseful. "_Because of my mistake. It wasn't meant to be like this, you know. It wasn't how this was supposed to go…_"

Mind racing, Harry opens his mouth to try voice the questions in his mind when lights flash up ahead. His head snaps up to find a cab idling in the car park nearby, headlights shining through the gaps in the trees. He can't see the driver.

"_Get in the cab_," the voice says.

A sharp breath of air punches out of Harry. "Not happening."

"_Get in the cab, Harry._"

There's a beat of silence where Harry stares at the car up ahead. No one gets out. It simply sits there, idling. Meanwhile the voice on the other end is as calm as ever, as if it's only a matter of time before he does what's asked.

"_It's the only way to get back what you lost... What you need._"

Harry shakes his head, confusion and frustration warring in his throat. "What the fuck are you talking about? _Who are you?_" he demands again, even though he knows.

It's him. The new head of the hydra.

"_If you want answers, you'll come,_" the voice states. "_And, Harry..._" Harry waits with bated breath and swears he can hear a smile coming from the other end of the line. "_Don't get any ideas about calling your friends._"

The line goes dead before Harry can protest and he stares down at the phone, then up at the cab. It's a trap. It has to be. This could very well be Bellatrix trying to lure him out and get him alone.

But why take him somewhere else to do it? She could just kill him right here, right now. His security detail is missing. He's a sitting duck. Which means there's only one other option.

This is a possible ally. An ousted member of the D.E. wanting revenge? Maybe even the same killer whose been leaving a trail of Voldemort's people all over the world like a giant warning sign. Another highly dangerous person. But one that might also be able to help.

Clutching his phone, Harry decides to chance it. He walks over to the cab and gets in the back. He can't get a good look at the driver but the face in the rearview mirror reveals a man with dark skin. Onyx eyes briefly flick to his but say nothing. Unsurprisingly, his questions about where they're going also go unanswered. But the fact he hasn't been blindfolded and gagged gives him hope.

They drive into London. Only when they slow down does Harry begin to recognise the street names and the hairs on the back of his arm stand up. Sardinia and Portsmouth street...

Why here?

The cab finally comes to a stop on the curb and Harry peers out to see the gaunt exterior of number 12 Grimmauld Place staring hollowly back at him. Harry's snapped out of his wary confusion by the chime of his phone and he fumbles it out to find a text from the unknown number.

_**Upstairs**_, is all it says.

Harry's hands hold the device like a lifeline. It could still be Bellatrix. She knew about this place… Even when few people did. Who else could it be? Eyes glued to his phone, Harry really does drop it when another message swiftly follows the first.

_**Give your phone to the cabbie.**_

Harry jumps when a hand wordlessly reaches into the backseat. Harry stares at it until he finally, reluctantly places his phone in the waiting palm. The cabbie jerks his head at the house.

"Go on, he's waiting for you."

Not Bellatrix, then, but a _he_. Harry latches on to that but frowns, shifting forward. "Who? Who's waiting for me?"

No reply.

Harry grunts in frustration and clambers out of the cab. As soon as he does, it immediately drives off, leaving him to stare up at the charred husk of a familiar old townhouse. The place where it all started. Where he'd been hunted down like an animal and dragged into the lair of a monster. The place where he'd been forced to leave his friends to burn.

But he isn't that terrified little omega Guide anymore.

His friends are alive and he works alongside them now to hunt high profile criminals for the Order of the Phoenix. He knows how to fight and can take care of himself. He's Harry Potter, survivor of a broken bond and several assassination attempts. He's the Man Who Lived.

Harry squares his shoulders and walks up to what used to be the door but what is now boarded up slats of wood. Swatting away the police tape, he shoulders it open and steps inside.

He steps over the debris of what was once the front door and drifts into a nightmare of black and twisted wood. He moves through the wreckage slowly, trying to understand its ugliness and ruin and shame. The place still smells of smoke and dust. A thick blanket of it layers everything, colours it a ghostly grey. Charred wood, melted plastic, and scorched furniture is all there is now. He walks past memories. Sees the broken glass Hermione crashed into, shattered all over the blackened carpet. Over there, the chairs they'd been tied to and where he'd…

Harry turns away and looks to the staircase. It doesn't seem to have undergone much damage but he ascends it with reasonable caution. As he does, he wonders - not for the first time - just who is up there. Whether he's simply walking to his own execution.

Harry absently paws at his forehead where the ache is building up again. He strains his ears, hoping to hear something, anything, and silently curses the fact he wasn't born a Sentinel. Because whoever it is up there is staying silent. Unmoving. Waiting. For _him_.

A prickle of trepidation runs up Harry's spine but he doesn't stop. Not even the pressure in his head can slow him now. He finally reaches the landing where he steps over pieces of ceiling as he scans the doors to the rooms and - there, the far room. The door is opened a crack. It doesn't escape Harry's notice that it's the same room he stayed in all that time ago.

Harry licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and nudges open the door frame. It creaks on its hinges as it swings open and the pressure behind his eyes explodes. Harry hisses with the sudden pain and clutches his head. But he isn't so distracted by it that he can't see _him_ -

The figure stands by the window and Harry can only stare at the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of him. A man dressed in a slim-fitting dark grey shirt and black trousers. Dim, early morning light spills in through the grimy window, outlining the stranger in a stark contrast. Harry hardly takes in the rest of the room, his eyes are so glued to the man. Hyper-focussed on him as a sudden rush of something feral and hungry thunders through his body, taking shape in the goosebumps prickling across his skin.

Then the man turns -

And Harry's breath sticks in his throat.

The face of a ghost stares back at him. The same face… the same dark eyes and the same dangerous look. But it's a _dead man_. It has to be. Because it can't be...

Harry stumbles forward as something dreadful, hopeful, and desperate roars to life in his heart. It clamours up inside him to speak. Rears its ugly head like some beast from the depths of an endless abyss. From the same place where nothing but the tatters of a bright and glowing thing once belonged. The message is all at once quiet and deafening.

_Bondmate_, it whispers.


End file.
